Meet Me In Manhattan. Claudia Carroll
meal.
I check the phone again. Nothing. And what’s even worse, I can’t call or text him because the thing is – I don’t actually have his number. He’s the one who rings me all the time and whenever he does, the number always comes up on my phone as ‘blocked.’ Ever since this whole thing first started, I’ve been priding myself on the fact that I’ve never had cause to ring him and now I’m bloody well kicking myself for not having the foresight to at least get a contact number for him before tonight.
But then I decide, isn’t it far better to be proactive and just do something about this instead?
So I whip out my phone and email.
User Name: lady_reporter
Member since August 2012
Hi, are you getting this? Just to say that I’m waiting in the restaurant, table right in the middle of the room … you can’t miss me! It’s just coming up to 8.45pm now, and I’m wondering what’s happened to you?
Call if/when you get this and in the meantime, looking forward to seeing you very shortly.
Holly.
Ok so now it’s 8.50 p.m. He’s almost a full hour late, which not only is starting to make me fear the worst, but also making me very, very tetchy. Then a sudden thought: he’s staying out at the Radisson airport hotel, isn’t he?
Approximately two seconds later, I’m googling their number and calling them. He’s jetlagged, is my reasoning. After all, he only just flew in from the States this morning. Of course that’s it! He’s bone tired from work, worn out with the time difference and more than likely crashed out on the bed. So it’s not that he forgot all about me, it’s just that he’s knackered and more than likely in a deep, jetlagged coma right now. Doesn’t that sound probable?
Absolutely.
‘Good evening, the Radisson airport hotel, how may I direct your call?’
‘Ermm, hi there. I’d like to speak to a guest of yours,’ I say, giving his full name.
‘Do you have a room number, Ma’am?’ comes a polite receptionist’s voice down the phone.
‘I’m afraid not. Can you check it out for me?’
‘I’m so sorry, Ma’am. I’m afraid we can’t give out that sort of information about our guests. It’s for privacy protection. I’m sure you understand.’
Shit.
‘OK,’ I say, trying hard to keep the exasperation out of my tone and not succeeding very well. ‘Well, in that case, can I at least leave a message? Can you ask him to call Holly Johnson as soon as he gets this?’
‘Thank you Ma’am, I’ll be sure to pass that on.’
‘If you wouldn’t mind, thanks. He’s booked in to stay with you till first thing tomorrow.’
‘Yes, Ma’am.’
I thank her – even though she was feck all use to me – and hang up. So now it’s coming up to 9 p.m. and I have to accept that I’m definitely in stood-up territory here. Plus, the queue of Saturday night diners has swollen practically out the door by now.
It’s also hard not to be aware that the pitying looks that were headed in my direction thirty minutes ago have now turned to full-on hostility; the fact that I’m now hogging a prime table with nothing but a bread basket, a glass of wine and an empty chair in front of me is doing me absolutely no favours.
And then, thank you God! My phone rings.
Him, it’s him, it has to be!
But it’s not.
It’s my flatmate Joy, checking in on me and making sure that wonder man didn’t turn out to be some midget with two ex-wives in Utah and halitosis.
‘You OK, love?’ she asks me worriedly. ‘Can you talk?’
I fill her in, making sure to cover my mouth and hiss into the phone so no one at the table either side of me can overhear.
‘Jesus, you mean he’s still not there yet?’ she splutters. ‘Almost a full hour late? Now you just listen to me, Holly. You’ve got to get the hell out of there. Right now. Hold your head high, don’t even think of making an excuse to the waiter, just ask for the bill and leave.’
‘But supposing …’
‘Suppose, my arse. I’m already here at the flat so just hurry home. Now do as I say, hang up the phone and go!’
So here’s what I remember happening next.
My face flushing hot with mortification as I paid for the wine, gathered up my bag and finally did the walk of shame all the way to the door. Another couple just glaring, then stomping icily past me to get to my table. Then battling my way through the throng gathered at the restaurant’s main entrance followed by the blessed relief of finally getting outside. The icy early December chill hitting me full in the face, as late-night Christmas shoppers trudged wearily past, all laden down with shopping bags. Smokers outside the restaurant all having a good gawp, practically with thought balloons coming out of their heads saying, ‘See her? That’s your woman whose date didn’t show. On a Saturday night.’
I remember a girl about my own age having a cigarette outside giving me a comforting pat on my shoulder as I passed her by. And oddly, that tiny gesture of solidarity went straight to my heart more than any words possibly could.
Then probably for the first time that whole shitty evening, the universe sent me a break. A taxi pulled up on the kerb and two minutes later I was zooming away, head pounding, heart walloping.
Completely and utterly crushed.
*
‘Bastard!’ Joy says, opening our hall door to me when I eventually do get home, giving me a warm, tight hug, bless her. Just a few quick things to know about Joy; she’s a glorious creature, six feet tall and stick-thin, in spite of the fact she eats about three times the amount I do. She’s got sharp bobbed jet-black hair and won’t go out the front door without wearing the thickest black eyeliner you’ve ever seen; works in a call centre for Apple and dresses from head to toe in black. She even wears black opaque tights during heat waves, which I find particularly worthy of note.
‘Bloody unforgiveable thing to do,’ she snaps, banging the hall door behind me so firmly that it rattles. ‘Now come on in, sit down and tell me everything.’
Five minutes later, I’m plonked in front of a roaring fire, kicking off my too-tight shoes while Joy attempts to get me to knock back a good, stiff glass of Sauvignon Blanc; the only acceptable cure according to her for any disappointment in life; heartbreak, loss, you name it. And believe me, over the past few years, the four walls of our tiny flat have pretty much seen it all. I just sit there numbly, cradling the stem of the wine glass and desperately trying to formulate my thoughts.
‘There could be a perfectly plausible excuse, you know,’ I say dully, rubbing my temples and trying to convince myself more than anything else.
‘Like what exactly?’ she says, raising an elegant jet-black eyebrow suspiciously.
‘Well, loads of things. I mean for starters, there might have been a flight delay. Or bad weather. Or awful turbulence that forced them to turn back to the States. For God’s sake, in his line of work, that kind of thing is an occupational hazard. There could even have been a terrorist attack on his flight, for all we know!’
‘If there were either storms, flight delays or terrorists hijacking a transatlantic flight then you can bet it would be plastered all over Sky News by now. And it most definitely isn’t. I checked the minute after I called you.’
I slump back against the sofa and take a big gulp of wine. But the old charm of drowning your sorrows just doesn’t seem to work this